


How to Fall (In Any and All Definitions)

by thespiritscalling



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, it's not explicitly stated but basically the entire manhattan squad are theatre kids, spot's a smart kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 07:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12600976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespiritscalling/pseuds/thespiritscalling
Summary: How to fall convincingly: Don't think about it. Don't look. Just pull your feet up and go flying through the air, and even though it will hurt when you hit the ground you know you're going to do it again. That's the great thing about falling- the exhiliration makes up for the pain.(in which Race is a very devoted theater kid and Spot learns the names of the entire football team for no reason)





	How to Fall (In Any and All Definitions)

**Author's Note:**

> a _soulmates feel each others' pain_ au.

At precisely 8:32 in the morning, Spot feels his entire right side hit the ground. 

He's standing at his bus stop when it happens. The only other person around is an old lady walking her dog across the street. His earphones are playing a mix of 70's rock and 2000's bubblegum pop and for an abnormally chilly October morning, everything seems to be going well.

Approximately fifteen seconds later, his tailbone connects with a floor.

He's known about the soulbond for a while, after getting a phantom stubbed toe pain in ninth grade and random stomach aches that seem just a bit too foreign. So far, nothing has led him to whoever keeps eating weird food combinations that result in stomach problems, but Spot isn't overly anxious to find out. Perhaps his hunting would be best described as _“for science.”_

When he gets another flash of pain, this one hard on the back of his head as well as his lower back, he is one hundred percent convinced that his soulmate is one of four things:

\- on the football team  
\- getting pushed around by assholes  
\- an asshole  
\- all of the above.

There isn't scheduled football practice in the mornings, something Spot knows only because Bumlets sleeps through his alarm every single morning and shows up late to math, so his soulmate either loves football or isn't part of the team at all.

That being said, most people in the area adore football, so it's not an implausible assumption.

The sudden aches, most on his right side, continue sporadically for about half an hour. At 9:00 Spot is sure they've ended. He checked both fields near the school (for science's sake, obviously) but both were empty. 

"Say," he says to Bumlets as soon as his friend walks into math, fifteen minutes late as per usual. "I don't suppose I could meet your team."

Bumlets stares directly ahead, not breaking eye contact with the teacher staring him down. "Why," he says emphatically, "would you possibly want to associate with the rest of those douchebags?"

"You're not a douchebag," Spot points out. 

Bumlets snorts. "I'm the exception. But you could if you wanted to, I guess. See if there's anyone else worth some quality communication. There's a practice after school today. I gotta warn you, though, if you use theatrical terms to refer to the team again, they're probably going to shun you forever."

"That was one time!" Spot interjects. "Besides, I'd been hanging around Jack’s crew too much by that point."

Bumlets hums. 

 

At the end of the day, Spot has got phantom bruises sprouting along his right side. He follows Bumlets onto the football field, holding Bumlets’ helmet because _while you’re here, you might as well be useful_. On the field already is a group of people in gear ( _football costumes,_ Jack’s voice says in Spot's head) and Spot wonders casually if any of them were the one bruising him in the early morning.

“What is this about, anyway?” Bumlets asks. “You told me you never had any interest in football.”

Spot subconsciously rubs his hip, where he can feel his soulmate doing the same. 

“Well, shit,” Bumlets says. “He hurt himself again, didn’t he.”

Spot and Bumlets have been math partners for almost three years- coincidentally, also about the same amount of time Spot has been feeling his soulmate’s recklessness. This means that Bumlets has also taken the brunt of Spot's complaints about his unnamed soulmate and knows exactly what’s going on.

“There’s a lot of right side action,” Spot confesses. “Almost like he’s checking someone. Or falling. Or both.”

Bumlets nods wisely. “You can watch and see if anything happens. Trust me, you’ll feel it.”

So Spot sits on the sidelines as they practice and waits for another flash of right-side pain. 

He watches almost all of the team members hit the ground without feeling any thing at all. It's coming on a full hour of Spot just sitting and watching- he has no interest in football, and this almost feels like hellish retribution for some ancient sin- 

"Yo, bio buddy!" yells someone behind Spot. He turns just in time to catch his new lab partner, Race, sliding past on a longboard. "Don't forget our paper tomorrow!"

By then, he is too far away for Spot to respond without destroying his lungs, so he shoots Race a pair of finger guns and hopes the message gets across. 

As soon as he turns back to the football, the palms of his hands and the growing bruise on his thigh erupt in pain. He scans the field quickly for any sign of who may have fallen, but the clumps of players make it almost impossible to tell.

He resigns himself to another day of watching practice and the slowly growing thought that maybe his soulmate isn't part of the team at all.

 

Identical aches on his right side seem to become commonplace during Spot's third block English class. It's almost comedic in the way he, at the end of the week, manages to almost exactly predict when it comes. He flicks his ankle enough to make it clear that the falling is not appreciated.

His soulmate, the cheeky bastard, manages to hurt himself extra-hard after that.

 

Throughout the next week, Jack is having trouble starting a conversation with something other than the mini production his theatre class is putting on. He makes it out to be revolutionary, because finally, _after two years of miming everything,_ he finally managed to convince the drama teacher to let them pull from the prop storage of the theater next door.

“And,” he says, for the sixth time (Spot is counting), “I get to wear a trench coat.”

After their first dress rehearsal, Jack comes home vibrating with excitement.

Spot is pretty sure he can see where the bruises have actually sprouted on his own body, even though they all belong to whoever seems to be consistently thrown against a wall during third period. He can tell whenever his soulmate leans on something particularly hard because his elbows start to ache, and he knows that they sleep on their side because his hip will _not stop aching_ anywhere between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. He also knows that their tendency to press on their bruises to check how much they've grown will probably (most definitely) be the end of him.

 

His biology lab partner, Race, grins at him every time he walks into the classroom. “I’m really hyped for this week,” he confides in Spot. “I’ve got no tests, for once, and our thing on Friday is gonna be _lit_.”

The Thing on Friday, naturally, is the same production Jack has been ranting about for the past week, so Spot is no stranger to it. “I might come, if only to see Jack in that dumb trench coat that he’s been gushing about.”

Race nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. He’s more excited about that than the actual performance. But we also got tech to do some super cool stuff with lightning that’ll blow your socks off.”

Spot is not wearing socks. He says so to Race, who berates him for “disregarding lab safety.” 

Race laughs, and although Spot's soulmate bruise flares again, he finds it less painful than normal and more… _fuzzy._

He shakes it off. At the front, the teacher is talking about the brain.

 

Friday comes quickly. Spot finds a seat in the very front row, in the left corner, so he can have an unobstructed view of whatever the theatre class has put together. The fog machine is, unfortunately, right next to his feet. He tries to eat most of his food before the thing decides to spurt a cloud of cherry-cough-drop-flavored fog directly onto his lap. 

Race is a part of the first scene. It's something to do with Death, played by someone Spot vaguely knows (Mike?) and another kid who played the lead in the school's previous Romeo & Juliet production. It's fast, heated, and they're in the middle of an argument when Spot hears, just for a moment:

Train bells.

Race bends his knees almost imperceptibly and manages to launch himself bodily across the stage, and during the few short milliseconds he is in the air Spot connects all the dots at once.

The moment Race hits the ground, he feels the same dull pain blossom through the same three spots as they had been for the past two weeks. 

"Asshole," he whispers. Race, now lying 'dead' on the ground, has his back to the audience, and Spot swears he can feel him grinning. 

 

Their encore performance features the entire class. Race is the second one to turn and face the audience, and the moment he makes eye contact with Spot (was it really that easy to find him?) Spot lifts a hand and very visibly flicks himself in the ear.

There's a glint in Race's eye as he screams his final words and collapses, more gently than Spot would have thought considering his previous death. 

Romeo looks out toward the audience, an expression of empty fear on his face.

"And that's how we all died."

The lights fade out, and when they come back up for the bows Spot finds himself applauding so hard his hands begin to sting.

 

"So?" Race says, smiling too large as he stares in the mirror, wiping away a trail of fake blood that has traced its way down his cheek. "What'd you think?"

"Well done," Spot says. "You guys put it together well."

Race launches into an explanation of how each scene came to be and how they all managed to tie them together, including the arguments of various people and the entire rehearsal process. 

"You missed a spot," Spot points out.

Race, of course, wiggles his eyebrows. "Damn right I did," he says. "Where have you been all my life, bio buddy?"

"Feeling you breaking your ass for the past two weeks. What did you do, practice?"

"That's exactly what I did."

A slightly scared bit of laugher escapes Spot before he can stop himself. "You're just a little bit crazy."

Race grins, full of teeth and happiness. "Aren't we all?"

Spot says, "I'm gonna hit every single door frame I pass today just to get you back for that. You're gonna have bruises for a month. Jesus, I spent an evening watching football 'cause I thought you were part of the team."

Race clearly recognizes the memory. "Oh, goodness," he whispers to himself more than anything. "That was the day I literally drove my board off the sidewalk 'cause I was focusing on you instead of where I was going."

"That's really goddamn cheesy."

"What can I say?" Race reverts immediately back to his less embarrassed mode. "You bring out the cheese in me."

"Oh, for gods' sake, there's still fake blood in your hair. Let me-"

"Spotty-"

"Stand still!"

**Author's Note:**

> this was written almost exclusively based on me wondering what it would be like if I had been in this certain au while I was flinging myself across my drama room. most of the dramatic sort of events portrayed here are drawn from a legit lunch presentation where I, of course, got hit by a train. I still have bruises. whoops. 
> 
> check out my tumblr!! @/impalahallows (writing tag #grace writes!!)


End file.
